


A House Divided

by felin78



Category: Babylon 5 & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felin78/pseuds/felin78
Summary: Marcus continues to recover but is haunted by dreams. Sequel to Mine Enemy, Mine Friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The sources for B5 history and references I have used heavily are the jumpnow website and the Code 7R list glossary for Rangers, Voltayre's Encyclopedia Xenobiologica, the B5 Tech-Manual and the Shrine of Alyt Neroon. Chronology and timelines are a toughie, but I'm doing the best I can.
> 
> The title refers to Lincoln's 1858 speech, and is derived from the phrase: "A house divided against itself cannot stand", which paraphrases a statement made by Jesus in the New Testament.
> 
> Warnings: some mild swearing, sexual situations, and typical male "mine is bigger than yours" posturing
> 
> Story glossary:  
> denn'bok: Minbari. Minbari fighting pike  
> den'ven'sha: Minbari. Literally "fight speak". Or, verbal sparring.  
> kata: Japanese. Literally "form". Word describing detailed choreographed patterns of movements practiced either solo or in pairs.  
> Zhaden: Minbari. Honorific title. Warrior.  
> Anla'shok: Minbari. Ranger  
> Shai'Alyt: Minbari. Commander. Equivalent to Earth General or Admiral or Commander in Chief.  
> Entil'Zha: Minbari. Title given to Ranger One, the head of the Rangers.  
> Los ahael: Minbari. Literally blood fire.  
> Zocolo: A name used on Babylon 5 for the marketplace.  
> Shan'hak: Minbari. Play.  
> Nee: Minbari. No. Not.  
> Tanto: Japanese. Literally, short sword. A common Japanese single or, occasionally, double edged knife or dagger with a blade length between 15 and 30 cm (6-12 inches).  
> Ma're: Minbari. Understand?  
> Nusen'taal: Minbari. Thank you. Formal.  
> Hela'mer: Minbari. Healer.  
> Shan'hela: Minbari. Massage. Healing massage.  
> Ra'sh ta'al Quith!: Minbari. A plague of misfortune on me!  
> Adrihi'e: Minbari. Equivalent to Terran "damn it!"  
> Torbarri: Minbari. Human.  
> Bollocks: British English: slang for testicles  
> Na'fak Cha: rebirth ceremony  
> Sech: Teacher  
> Vik: Warrior caste dialect

  
Inesval, the _Hela'mar_ of the _Ingata_ , was as bad as Dr, Franklin, if not worse.

" _Ra'sh ta'al Quith!_ \-- A plague of misfortune on me!-- Humans! So fragile, and take so long to heal! Did not your healer restrict your activities? Did he not restrict you to light duty? How could he be so derelict to let you start training again so soon?!" Inesval's withering glare made Marcus drop his gaze. He had tried to be stoic during the exam, but the fingers of the healer were too skilled, too probing.

Neroon winced and cast an apologetic look in Marcus's direction.

"He _is_ the best in the fleet," he repeated, as if in explanation.

" _Shai'Alyt_! If you have nothing better to do than just stand there, then help this _T_ _orbarri_ remove his shirt while I prepare the proper unguents." Scowling, the older Minbari strode purposefully into an adjoining room--a lab or dispensary, Marcus guessed.

"I can do this myself," he growled as Neroon hesitantly touched the sleeve of Marcus's shirt. It was bad enough having to endure the cool reception of the _Ingata_ crew when he came on board, practically bent over his right side, doing his best not to pant with pain. He wasn't in the mood to put up with being undressed like an invalid.

He grasped the back of his shirt with his left hand and dragged it over his head, then eased it carefully off his right side. The effort left him drenched in a cold sweat. Between that and the pain, his awareness of the _Shai'Alyt's_ proximity wound his keyed up senses into a state bordering paranoia. Automatic reflex, an aftermath of their fight, and a consequence of intense training. And his dreams.… Although the rational part of Marcus's mind knew there was no longer a danger to life and limb, his instincts told him otherwise.

"What're you staring at?" Marcus struggled to suppress the urge to leap off the table and attack. He settled for straightening up, pain singing into his shoulder and hip. He stared into Neroon's eyes.

"Your injuries," Neroon paused. "How did you spar? The pain--"

"These?" Marcus touched the barely faded purple-black bruises that marred his fair skin. "They're nothing. You should've seen them before." He tried to take a deep breath and failed. "You don't pull your punches. Oh wait, maybe you do. Anyway, remind me to think twice before accepting any "special" missions that involve me trying to hold back a pit bull."

"Pit bool?"

Inesval swept back into the room.

"Never mind." Marcus gritted his teeth as the healer eased him back onto the exam table. Better shut up now, he was babbling like an idiot. Not good. Gods, how he hated med-lab. Any med-lab. He needed to get out of here as soon as possible, before he embarrassed himself, or committed a cultural _faux-pas_ , or ended up doing both.

However, Neroon's word held true. Inesval worked magic on Marcus's side. Gentle fingers worked a thick ointment into skin, smoothing away the ache, pressing in at times, releasing, skating over the contours of bone and muscles, making the pain recede.

"Good stuff," Marcus remarked. He drew in a deep breath and grinned. A pleasant warmth bloomed along his right ribcage. "What do I owe you?"

"You could never afford me," the _hela'mar_ replied in an acid tone. "You were very lucky--for being a young fool, that is. Your muscles compensated to protect you from re-injury. You'll need a few more treatments to achieve the greatest benefit. I'll send over a supply of the silverleaf liniment with instructions. And no more sparring! Your healer and I will discuss when you are able to return to active duty."

"But--" Marcus sat up, pushing away the restraining hands. " _Shai'Alyt_ , you said..."

" _Hela'mar_ Inesval," Neroon began.

" _Shai'Alyt_ Neroon! Don't even think of pulling rank on me, you whelp! This matter is beyond your purview. Have you not put this _T_ _orbarri_ under my care?"

"Yes, but--"

"No buts." Inesval pinned Neroon, then Marcus, with a black gaze. "You come to me for medical care. Very well. But healing is a partnership. I do my part, you do yours. You want to return to service, _Anla'shok_ Cole? Then do as I say!" He turned around and stalked off. "Warriors! Rangers! Valen help me!"

*******

Marcus awoke face down in bed, hands clutching the sheets, hips grinding into the mattress. Hot and sweaty, he twisted around, kicking off the thin blanket as he rolled up into a sitting position.

He groaned. That bloody dream again. Why wouldn't it leave him the hell alone?

"Lights low," he said in a rusty voice. With a long sigh he ran a hand through his mane of unruly hair.

"Bollocks, I'm cracking up," he muttered. He placed a hand over his crotch, over his aching erection. He craved release, but not by his own hand. He did it only when he had to, to get some relief. But his climaxes felt empty, only seeming to accentuate the fact that he was alone.

It wasn't always bad, the loneliness. Missions and reconnaissance and the subtle play of espionage kept feelings at bay, so he didn't have to deal with them. Which was exactly how he wanted it. He sighed again, an exaggerated long, drawn-out, long-suffering sigh. Gods, he hated this maudlin wallow in narcissistic self-pity, or angst, or whatever the devil it was.

Better to be doing something, anything, than sitting here in the half-dark with a hard-on, unable to sleep, thinking of people and places long-dead, dreams and regrets buried with them.

A sonic shower wasn't going to cut it this time.

He wanted water. Lots of water. The colder, the better.

But first.…

Marcus lay back, bare back on the rumpled covers, then slid the lightweight sleeping pants down his hips, just enough to grasp the velvet-smooth hard flesh into his fist. Taking his time, he stroked with a steady rhythm, building up to the peak then stopping, feeling the pulse and jerk against his slick palm. Doing it this way intensified the orgasm. He liked the discipline, the self-control. It reminded him of harnessing the hot rage inside when he entered combat.

He didn't need to fantasize. The sensation itself was enough, walking the edge between holding back and giving in. Stimulus and response. Predicable and entirely physical. Climbing up, teetering on the brink, then sliding down. Good. Good. Ah, better. Again. Again. Then suddenly his mind, empty except for pure feeling, flooded with vivid images.

A familiar Minbari warrior faced him, with eyes like shards of endless night.  
They fought, not pike to pike, but hand to hand.  
Grey smoke wreathed them, a warm whisper against naked skin.  
Bluish light highlighted curves of muscles and bones, alternating with bands of dark, like in the tunnel Down Below, where Marcus had waited to die.  
The rasp of harsh breathing blended with the thrum of machinery as they grappled for purchase, pitting strength against strength.

Anticipation. Excitement. Struggling. Yielding. Pain. Pleasure.

The sensation ramped up, intense and excruciating, setting his body aflame. He hardened completely, rigid and wet and ready. With a ragged moan Marcus thrust his hips upward, toes curling against the rough rug, spine arching.

He rode the crest as long as he could, lost in the place where everything was obliterated in a blaze of white light, a merciful transcendence where he forgot the darkness he carried inside like a weight.

The surrender was heaven, and hell.  
_La petite morte_. The little death. Yes, it was like that.

For he was still alone, his emission a cooling gel against his belly.

Opening his eyes, he stared blindly at the ceiling.

Unbidden, Lennier's words came to mind. Lennier, aide to Delenn, to _Entil'Zha_. Patient, kind, controlled Lennier, who once let his polite mask of reserve slip long enough to issue a warning and put Marcus in his place.

_"Do not touch me in that fashion. We may sometimes look like you, but we are not you. Never forget that."_

How could he forget? Or had he grown accustomed to the odd facial and skull structure, the altered cadence of speech, the foreign tongue he spoke with such fluency, and the beliefs ensconced in his heart, as if he had been taught them in childhood? And now his treasonous body wanted to--wanted to....

What the devil was wrong with him?

He couldn't understand it. The conflict, yes. Challenging himself, pitting himself against impossible odds...that gave him great pleasure. Especially if the antagonist was one who needed to be taught how to behave in a manner befitting a civilized being. But the satisfaction from being an avenger on the side of light was quite different from the rough pleasure spiking his sleep.

It made his unrequited desire for Susan Ivanova pale in comparison.

How pathetic, to be more turned on by fantasy than the real thing.

Problem was…what was the real thing?

Drawing a deep breath, Marcus dropped his gaze to the Japanese tanto hanging on the wall, half way unsheathed. The silvery frosted blade gleamed like ice next to the reflective lacquer cover.

A gift, from a powerful adversary who had stayed his killing hand.

_"I now see possibility in unity between human and Minbari. We are of the same heart, you and I, though you do not yet believe it."_

A subtle shift nudged open a door in Marcus's mind, accompanied by an odd sense of vertigo.

"No." He shook his head. He'd had these fugues before, sudden revelations from new connections forming, between thought and nerve, between mind and body.

He wasn't going there tonight.

"No." With a huge effort he stopped the process, threw up a wall. There might be hell to pay later, but he didn't care.

Coming may have taken the edge off his need, but it did nothing for the insomnia, or the restlessness.

He had to get out of here.

Scooping the mess he had made into his hand, he made his way to the lavatory and quickly cleaned up.

*******

Marcus slipped through the corridors like a ghost.

Babylon 5 was a station that never truly slept, but it operated on a schedule, on Universal Time, which meant some watches were manned only by a skeleton crew. Business was conducted during so-called "daylight" hours, mimicking human convention. By that standard, this was the dark watch, the equivalent of the dead of night.

Which suited Marcus just fine. He had no patience for any social interaction given the mood he was in.

Still, you never knew who you might bump into, even if the majority of the populace of this small city in space was asleep.

With resignation he slowed his pace as a familiar form rounded the corner up ahead and approached him.

"Marcus."

"Lennier." Marcus gave a small bow, schooling his face to an expression of polite interest.

The slight figure bowed back.

"How are you feeling, Marcus?" Steady blue eyes regarded him carefully. No remorse there, none at all, for sending Marcus to face death a few weeks ago.

"Well enough," he replied in a neutral tone.

"Dr. Franklin tells me you are almost completely recovered."

Marcus nodded brusquely. Stephen had grounded him after the fiasco in the training hall, barring him from active duty for the next ten days. To ensure Marcus's compliance, a temporary reprimand had been placed on Derrick's record, to be erased once Marcus passed his follow up medical exam. Marcus didn't care one way or the other about any black marks on his own file, but to have someone else pay the price for his shortcomings...that he wouldn't tolerate. So he tried to behave, play by the rules, even though his nerves were starting to fray.

"The _Entil'Zha_ is safe?" he asked. "There have been no other attempts on her life?"

  "None. Neroon's acceptance of her authority--even grudging acceptance--has created dissension within the Warrior Caste. Their attention is turned inward now, to deal with the rift. Such instability is a breeding ground for conflict. There is no telling what their next move will be. We cannot afford to let down our guard."

"I agree," Marcus said, pleased to have changed the subject. Now, in Valen's name, please don't let him start talking about the _Na'fak Cha_.

"Delenn would like to speak with you when your convalescence is completed."

Shit. This was far worse. Time for a strategic escape.

"Of course, but--"

"But we can discuss details later. I can see you're in a hurry to get somewhere."

"Um, yes. To do some stretching, actually. I'm getting a tad stir crazy."

Climbing the walls like a caged animal was more like it. Lazing around for the first two days had been nice, but after that his cabin fever had morphed into something bordering on psychosis. He had been ready to chew his fingers off. To amuse himself he had concentrated on using up his nuisance rights by baiting Stephen, irritating Garibaldi and stalking Ivanova, but none of it scratched the itch growing inside him.

Just two more days. Two more days and he would return to active duty. Be useful again.

Lennier smiled, as if reading Marcus's thoughts. "Learn patience, my friend. The body heals at a certain pace. And at times the mind and heart must be attended to as well. Delenn has not forgotten about the rebirth ceremony, and neither should you. Good evening--or should I say good morning?" With a slight bow he walked past, continuing on his way.

Marcus stared for a moment at the now empty passageway. Then he resumed his purposeful stride.

*******

Hidden away on a restricted level of Babylon 5 was the one place where the use of water was unregulated--the Aqua Center.

Minbari engineers had provided the technology to deal with such a large volume of liquid on a rotating station. Marcus knew it had to do with some tricky balancing of gravity fields, but beyond that, his interest lay in using the facility...with Stephen's permission, of course. The doctor considered swimming therapeutic, the best exercise for healing bones and muscles. Marcus smiled to himself. Good thing Stephen had no idea what Marcus could do in the water.

Morann was on guard duty at the entrance. A new recruit, which wasn't unusual in itself, save for the fact he was from the Warrior caste, and stationed on Babylon 5 to boot. The Rangers didn't have many recruits from Minbar's military clans, but Morann was an exception. Poised and serene, the Minbari carried himself with a quiet assurance that belied his young age.

" _Anla'shok_ Cole." The bow was deep, respectful.

"Hello, Morann." Marcus nodded. "Anyone inside?"

"Not at the moment."

"Good. I have a favor to ask.…"

*******

The natatorium complex differed by a magnitude of light years from the swimming halls of Earth and her colonies. Yes, it had the standard amenities, but its configuration could be modified to resemble the watery terrains of various worlds. Sometimes the pool was not a pool, but a river, placid or raging, or a small sea, with or without jutting rocks. The shape and depth could be adjusted, as well as the salinity, density and color of the water. The same went for the walls, which could be made to resemble towering cliffs or the wide expanse of sky. This chameleon-like capability proved useful in keeping the training exercises challenging, as well as adapting to the needs of those injured and undergoing rehabilitation.

Keeping in line with the Minbari sense of aesthetics, the walls and the bowl of the pool itself consisted of a multi-faceted crystalline material. Depending on the quality and character of the source light, it could be made to appear opaque or translucent, or something in-between, like the texture of stone or sand.

Marcus issued a few short commands as he stripped down. The lights dimmed, and the far wall grew transparent, a gigantic window to the outside.

When he was satisfied with the layout, Marcus dove into the water, going deep, until his searching hands found the bottom.

  
 He floated in a sea of stars.

This was his favorite program, the one that let him see into space. He didn't know how the engineers had done it, but he was grateful. In this state, drifting, silent, his thoughts would slow, and his mind go quiet. It was like standing on the edge of oblivion, looking down, tempted to take the final step.

He wondered if death felt like this, on the other side.

After a long while, he emptied his lungs and surfaced. A breath of humid air, then down under again, surrounded by star-studded night, broken only by the faint luminescent markers that distinguished the borders of the pool from the black of space. The course was tortuous and twisted, a convoluted Mobius strip looping back on itself, keeping his attention focused and lulling him into a relaxed state of awareness. The only things in his world were the pressure of the water around him, the strong beat of his heart in his ears, and the powerful movements of his arms and legs propelling him forward, up, down and around. Again and again, occupying the whole of his concentration.

On his third pass, a prickle of unease ran down his back.

The sixth sense that had saved his life many times over told him someone watched his every move.

*******

Neroon entered Babylon 5 during the quiet watch of the night. He went against the wishes of his First, and his Second. They wanted to send at least two aides --translation, bodyguards--with him, arguing that the truce between the castes was tenuous. Neroon had laughed, mocking. Who would dare attack him? One from the Religious Caste? The Worker Caste? Ha! The thought of a lone rogue fanatic amused him. Given the current state of affairs, he stood in more danger from certain members of his own caste. As for humans, very few humans stood a chance against him, Sinclair none-withstanding. It was a thought without pride, dispassionate fact.

Through half-lidded eyes he watched Marcus slice through the water, a comet flashing against a tapestry of stars, only occasionally surfacing for air. Unlike the noisy splashing of swimmers Neroon had seen before, Marcus moved through the water like he did when he fought on solid ground, with a curious economy of movement. Nearly silent, like something born to the sea. There were oceans on Minbar, but none as large as on Earth. Neroon took another deep breath. The air pressed heavy about him, damp and cool.

Abruptly, the pale shape shot over to the side of the pool, levitated half out of the water, then slid back down in a splash, turning to face him. The ominous sound of a PPG powering up zipped through the air. A long arm came up, aligning the weapon's barrel to draw an unerring bead on Neroon's skull.

"Be at peace, _Anla'Shok_."

Surprise flickered in those green eyes he remembered so well. The muzzle of the gun dropped.

"Neroon." Marcus spoke the name with an odd inflection on the first syllable, drawing it out a fraction longer than customary; the pronunciation was in the old way.

" _Anla'Shok_ Cole." Neroon gave a nod of his head. "It is good to see you again." He smiled slightly. "Though your choice of weapon does not become you."

"And your lack of manners doesn't become you," came the sharp retort. "It's not polite to disturb someone at meditation. Or didn't your parents teach you that?" Marcus placed the weapon back on the ledge, near the heap of discarded clothing.

"This is not meditating," Neroon said, ignoring the insult.

"Ah, but there are many ways to meditate, _Shai'Alyt_. This happens to be one of mine."

"Really?" Neroon crossed his arms over his chest. "I've heard it said you're not one for meditating."

"You have?" The man stared at him, treading water slowly. Only his head cleared the surface, dark hair floating like smoke on the ripples. "Why are you here, Neroon? And how did you get in? Morann is not one to shirk his duty, or a direct order."

"Morann bows to the authority of one who is elder to him in his clan."

"He's a Star Rider?" Marcus frowned. "It doesn't matter. He is no longer of the Warrior Caste, he is _Anla'shok_. A Ranger. His allegiance is to the One, not to his clan. We'll have to have a talk, he and I."  
  
"All you say holds true--to a point. In this case, there is no conflict. I gave him my word he would suffer no repercussions from his actions. Any fault should be directed at me."

"You assume a great deal."

"I know you." Neroon smiled. "Come out, and we'll discuss it." He paused. "Face to face. Open-handed. Without weapons. Unless you have doubts--"

"You're on." Marcus shot up onto the pool's ledge, water sluicing off his pale skin, delineated muscles flexing in his back, in the lean curve of his buttocks, and in the long flow of his limbs. He moved with a careless grace, so inherent and unselfconscious that Neroon felt sure Marcus had no hint of how he looked from the outside.

The human's nakedness spoke volumes. No wedding brand, for instance. Strange. By Neroon's reckoning, Marcus was in his prime. Most human males were mated and had sired children by his age. But wait…not all humans commemorated marriage by marking. Some used jewelry, like finger rings and…what was it? _Adrihi'e_! He couldn't remember. Within the species of humanity existed hundreds of different cultures, all with different customs, beliefs, and rituals. He had no idea which ones Marcus followed.

"So, tell me. Why did you go to all the trouble of looking for me at such an ungodly hour?" Marcus, clothed now in pants and boots, squeezed water out of his long mane of hair which lay tight against his skull. The shape of his head was broad and strong and symmetrical, pleasing to the eye. The line of the jaw too, which Neroon could now see clearly, since Marcus had cut the facial hair close to the skin, different from the last time they had spoken.

"The _Ingata_ docked yesterday, yet you did not visit her." Neroon walked over to stand a few strides away from the young man.

"What?"

"Did you not say you would see me when my ship was in dock?"

Marcus stared at him, a measured, not-quite-friendly stare.

"Your crew is not fond of human Rangers, especially now. And I am handicapped, since my doctor has prohibited me from sparring. When he releases me, I will be happy to engage you again. _Shan'hak. Ma're_?" The last said with some sarcasm, and not a little hostility.

"Stand down, Cole," Neroon said. "I am not your enemy."

Marcus held Neroon's gaze for several heartbeats, then glanced away. His hands, balled into fists, slowly unclenched.

"I must apologize, _Shai'Alyt_. I'm not…sleeping well." He shrugged. "Being still for too long is very difficult for me."

Neroon laughed. "Something common to both of us." He fell silent, watching as Marcus slicked back wet ropes of hair into a leather tie. His torso shone with the same sheen as native Minbari quartz. Oddly enough, no pelt marred the broad yet lean chest, as it did on many human males.

"I can't believe I'm that interesting to look at." Shirt in hand, Marcus turned to face Neroon fully. The green eyes held challenge.

"I have never seen one of your species unclothed. At least, not this close." And alive, he added silently.

"Are we so different from you?"

"Yes...and no." Stepping forward, he tugged the long-cuffed glove from his right hand. "May I?"

*******

Bemused, Marcus nodded yes. Already this encounter took on the character of the surreal--the black knight of his dreams came to life, following him, spying on him, now about to touch him….Marcus tensed as the ungloved hand moved toward his head.

"First there is the obvious: the matter of hair growing from the scalp." Neroon slid his hand down the length of hair trailing wetly down Marcus's back. The touch felt strange. Pressure, then warm calloused palm slipping against cool wet skin. "There are those on my world who say it is a sign of humans being less evolved, more primitive."

Marcus felt his mouth twist with wry amusement. "And what is it you say, _Shai'Alyt_?

Dark eyes appraised him. "I say I reserve judgement…for now."

"Hm. At least you're honest."

"External appearances can be deceiving. I choose my own path, and what I believe. Shall I go on?"

"Of course, 'teacher'. Continue the lesson. Just remember the primitive human has a PPG within reach of his right hand, so don't try anything funny," Marcus said in a light tone.

"Very well." Neroon smiled. "I won't forget. Though I doubt you would have the opportunity to pull the release first. I have you at a disadvantage." Neroon's hand, now resting on the nape of Marcus's neck, squeezed gently.

" _Touche_." Marcus inclined his head slightly. "Continue."

"The next not so obvious point: our necks are thicker, to support our skulls, which are heavier than those of humans. You cannot tell this from observation alone, since the muscles lay differently along the cervical spine."

"How fascinating. Thick-headed, who would've thought?" Marcus grinned, starting to enjoy himself.

"I see you are a formidable opponent at the _den'ven'sha_." Neroon chuckled. "You must have vexed your Sechs to no end."

"You don't know the half of it. Care to take me on? You might lose."

The warrior's mouth quirked in a half smile, and the ridges above his eyes rose. "Then again, I might not." Neroon's voice deepened. "Do you care to take the risk?" His hand shifted slightly, tightening over Marcus's shoulder, the pressure increasing to the point of bruising.

Marcus didn't flinch under the punishing grip but leaned into it, with a powerful flex of his deltoid and upper arm. "I like risk,"" he said, his grin widening. "The real question is, do you?" He bucked against Neroon's black-sleeved arm, enough to shift them both alarmingly near the water's edge. "One more push, and we can continue this in the pool." A fleeting look of disquiet flashed over the Minbari's face. The hand clamped down hard in reflex as the warrior widened his stance, grounding himself.

"You are no match for me," Neroon said in a low voice. Calm, so calm, like the stillness before a coming storm.

"Not yet." Marcus leaned in closer. "But I will be." He locked his gaze with Neroon's. He couldn't stop grinning. A fierce heat bloomed inside his chest, under the sternum, spreading fingers down into his belly and along his limbs. Why, when his body was still, did he feel as if he were sparring?

"Well? If you don't go on, I'm taking us for a swim," Marcus said. His heart picked up pace, like a horse shifting into a canter. He could imagine the movements needed to break the hold on his shoulder: the explosion of repressed power, the brutal twist and spin, the feint and duck, the devastating counterattack. One blow would be enough, one strike with the heel of his hand into the junction of bone crest and skull, into the secret place where the join in bone meant weakness. But Marcus did none of those things. Instead, he held the weighted gaze of cool, intense eyes boring into his.

"Very well." Neroon's tight grasp loosened, and his hand slid downwards, along Marcus's right collarbone. "From the neck we come to the chest," he said, picking up from where he had left off, as if nothing had happened. "Minbari have larger ribcages..." but Marcus was only half-listening.

Neroon's touch distracted him. Fingertips, so gentle, so careful, drifted over the faded blotches marring Marcus's right side, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The sensation was nothing like the hard pressure that had bitten into his shoulder before, baiting him.

"The hipbones," Neroon's hand slowed as it dropped past the edge of Marcus's ribcage.  "They're thicker as well. Overall, our musculature and skeletal structure are denser--ah ah, don't say it--which may explain our superior strength." Three fingers traced the sloped curves of abdominal muscle, the touch becoming lighter; two fingers, then just one, the index finger, stopping at the fold of cloth and belt. There it rested in the gap created by hip and pants.

Despite being wet and chilled, Marcus felt his bare skin begin to warm, then sweat. He wanted to move away, he wanted to move closer. He did neither, frozen in place by a fingertip.

********

"As for the rest," Neroon tugged gently at the waistband before drawing his hand away, "We are alike...yet different." He let his gaze travel down the lean pelvis and thighs before looking up at the human's face. A faint flush colored the fair skin. "Perhaps that is a discussion for another time, yes?" Marcus nodded slowly. "Good. Lecture over." He slid his hand into his glove. "You're shivering. Finish dressing, and we'll get some tea."

Uncharacteristically, Marcus didn't argue. He just pulled on his black shirt, then the traditional long tunic.

"Inesval asks after your health," Neroon said. He rocked back on his heels. "He's taken quite an interest in your recovery after speaking with _Hela'mar_ Franklin. On his behalf, I must ask: why is your rest disturbed?"

Marcus's hands faltered in the midst of strapping on the holster of his denn'bok. "I'm having odd dreams," he said.

"What manner of dreams?"

"I'd rather not say." Marcus continued adjusting the _denn'bok_ , the hidden PPG, and other lethal things on his legs, in his boots, every movement methodical and precise. It was more than obvious the ritual had become second nature to him.

Neroon didn't press. He knew first hand that a heavy hand invited resistance. Marcus wasn't one to submit easily, or reveal what he chose to keep hidden. That pleased Neroon. He looked at Marcus's bowed head, admiring again the strong lines, the broad brow. Beautiful. A stir of interest flickered through him. Erogenous. Lustful. His groin swelled in response. Irritated, Neroon tamped down the cascade of desire.

 _He's human, human...._ he repeated over and over to himself. _Human. Not Minbari._

 _More than human_ , a voice whispered in his mind. _It is the spirit that is paramount, not the flesh it is clothed in. Why do you not see this?_

Neroon cleared his throat. "My _hela'mar_ takes great pains to remind me of the importance of rest. Unfortunately, my thoughts weigh heavy of late, and he has caught me several times awake during my sleep cycle."

"Political worries?" Marcus glanced up.

"Very astute of you." Neroon nodded.

"Hm. That would give anyone nightmares." A half-smile crooked Marcus's mouth. "I don't envy you. Did Inesval give you a piece of his mind?"

"Of course." A rueful laugh. "My rank is of no matter when it comes to the fitness of the _Ingata_ crew."

"Sounds like Stephen. And speaking of dear Dr. Franklin, he says post-traumatic stress is affecting my sleep. What a load of bollocks. I've never had PTS in my life." With one last tug to his shirt, Marcus issued a rapid series of words, some Earth standard, some warrior caste Minbari. The room began to rearrange itself around them. Soon they stood at the side of an oval pool of ice-blue water, surrounded by grey walls. The great window was gone. The effect was sterile and impersonal, a blank canvas ready for the next artist.

"You speak _Vik_ ?" Neroon asked. The majority of Ranger training classes were conducted in _Adrenato_ \--Religious Caste dialect--as per custom, though that was changing due to the large influx of human recruits. The warrior dialect tended to be insular, confined to the designated caste. Humans were not encouraged to enter.

"Picked up a lot on my own. It wasn't easy." Marcus gave a huff of laughter. "I thought I was doing well, so I tried it out on Durhann. What a mistake. He got so disgusted at my pronunciation he started to correct me in the middle of a lesson, using his _denn'bok_ to drive home each point. I was black and blue for a week."

Neroon could imagine the scene. He tried to hold back his laugh and failed.

Marcus grinned. "There are lot of things you don't know about me, Neroon." Again, challenge in the tone. Pushing, as if to keep him at arm's length.

"And some I do. For example, I know you like tea. But what kind?" He shrugged, bringing up his forearms, opening his hands.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Marcus said, in a thoughtful voice. He stared into Neroon's face, as if searching for something. Neroon held the gaze, waiting. After a long moment Marcus took a deep breath and looked away.

"C'mon then." He turned on his heel and headed for the door. Neroon followed, lengthening his stride. As he drew alongside, Marcus cast him a sidelong glance. Those eyes--such a startling green--held wonder mixed with curiosity.

At the door Marcus stopped abruptly. "You should try it." He inclined his head toward the pool, now mirror smooth. "Swimming. Water has a way of cleansing the mind."

"Only if you join me at the salt lakes on Minbar, " Neroon replied, his tone neutral. "The salinity is far higher. Greater buoyancy."

"Let's start with tea first, " came the reply, not missing a beat. "Have you been to Shing's? Run by a Chinese chap who looks like he's three hundred years old. He carries over a thousand varieties of tea, from Earth and elsewhere, including my favorites.…"

They went out the door, Neroon listening intently to the light banter. Yes, there was much he did not know. But that only meant the joy of discovery lay before him, the unmapped terrain of a kindred soul. All the defenses in his way he would overcome. Not without a fight, he was certain. Neroon smiled inwardly. Pleasure uncurled within his chest, under his armor, beneath the heavy muscle and bone. Physically different they might be, but it was the common ground of the heart that truly mattered.

*******

 _"Strange...that a human in his last moments should be more of a Minbari than I. Perhaps it is true what Delenn said, we are not of the same blood, but we are of the same heart…."_  
Neroon, from "Grey 17 is Missing", Babylon 5, Season 3, episode 19.


End file.
